no_sin_but | (no subject)

(no subject)

Marlowe is not, and has never been, a continuous writer. He's too full of energy for that, too quick and hurried with that impossible perfectionistic streak. Instead, he writes in episodes of fevered inspiration countered by episodes of staring and thinking.

Tonight, he is in the latter.

He is sitting in his chair, leaning it back with his leg braced against the table to keep from toppling. Hands linked behind his head, eye bright and sharp and far away.

On the table, there are papers. His play, scattered here there and everywhere, and Darren's letters.

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He winces, slightly, and rubs the back of his head.

Edited 2007-12-01 03:49 (UTC)

Darren snorts, and opens his book.

It possibly takes longer than it should, and it's nothing to do with any form of jealousy or possessiveness.

Just Marlowe.

"I don't mind if you sleep with other people."

"I don't usually."

He was just so angry.

"Don't let that stop you or anything. I just... I'm still not looking for complicated things."

"Neither do I."

Just, sometimes.

Like Spike.

But, this is Marlowe and admitting things...doesn't happen.

"And neither am I."

"And Geoffrey's asked me back to New Burbage to direct Romeo and Juliet."

Which he may have neglected to mention but now seems like as good a time as any and now Darren just looks tired and miserable.

"It's a good play, even if young William stole my line."

"I hate Geoffrey. I've had to stipulate in my contract that he doesn't stab me."

And it's so fucking romantic, he can hardly stand it.

A sharp, wicked grin.

"Sounds perfectly delightful."

"You are insane, you do know."

"All geniuses are."

"And modest," he quips immediately.

He shudders.

"I had to play modest at school. I think I can safely say that after the first ten minutes it really, really grates."

"You're right. To hell with modesty."

He's running a finger absently up the spine of the book he didn't even really begin reading, watching Marlowe instead.

From the age of six to twenty-three.

It was very, very tiring. Not to mention it didn't help with his natural inclination to keep his thoughts to himself.

Or at the very least, off his face.

"Especially when you aren't going to be kicked out because you ignore it."

"They joys of adulthood. Owning your own life."

If any one is going to be thrown out here, it's Darren.

He snorts.

"Or something akin to that."

"Or something akin to that," echoes Darren, but a lot more cheerfully.

He feels sorted.

"Any thoughts on what you plan to do with aforementioned play?"

"I'll sort it out. I don't really want to think about it. Probably something with Roland Bart."

Darren's been reading Roland Bart the last couple of days.

Amused,

"Sure."

("It’s an old trick that our friend the corpse used in his Romeo and Juliet play.")

And if there is something faintly dark about that amusement, something still held back, well.

It's Marlowe.

Edited 2007-12-01 09:19 (UTC)

"I'm going to stay in the bar the next few days. I think."

Barring interventions by Pucks, Satans and Le Chiffres.

Now he looks pleased.

"Good."

"I thought we might see a play."

Like he mentioned.

That he did.

"Anything particular you have in mind?"